2000 March

A biography of my grandmother, a missionary in China who escaped with her 6-year old son (my father) in 1950.

An intense, personal story in the African Congo that puts in vivid relief the ways the things we hold holy can throw us into conflict with our world.

I have a good breakfast and a liesurely morning ride through Eureka to my starting point, Arcata. Time seems to slow down as the finish line approaches. I ride into town at noon, when they sound their warning siren. It rises and falls slowly as I ride by. When I reach the town square it has stopped, and I see a small throng of people waiting for me.

There are ballons, flowers, and ribbon finish line for me to crash through - all the doings of Mom and Dad. I drop the bike and receive a round of hugs, gifts, and then interviews from the Arcata Eye and a couple of local TV stations. Marty, the guy I rode with way back in Oregon who makes his own trailers, congradulates me. The whole time I feel like I’m watching this happen, unable yet to acknowledge it.

We eat a sushi lunch in the Arcata Hotel where I assembled my recumbent in the wee hours of the morning over eight months ago. As I ponder it I realize my adventure isn’t really over. The journey back to Wyoming with Dad is in front of me, a rendevous with Ann is in the works, a trip to Ireland and Europe with Nathan, and I suppose I’ll be starting a career at some point. The sadness I feel about ending my ride clings to me, but I know it will pass.

My new tire holds up well this morning. When I reach Humbolt Redwoods State Park I exit 101 for the much more peaceful Avenue of the Giants highway.

I ride slowly between the toes of the of the giant redwoods for most of the day, swathed in their mighty shadows. At one point a guy on a scooter with a big bag hanging off it passes me. He’s pushing himself from Arcata to San Francisco on that thing. He doesn’t talk long - his work is cut out for him to make the next campground by dark.

Once out of the redwoods I ride quickly to Fortuna, then follow directions to my Mom’s friend Maryann’s house where I am greeted by my parents.

In the morning I bid farewell to the ocean and start cranking up Legett Hill. Mossy oaks provide good shade for the work. I get so absorbed in the cranking that I don’t investigate the periodic noise that has developed in the back wheel. Half a mile short of the top of the hill I hear a sound like a cannon going off and leap off the bike. When I return I see I’ve blown the back tire, thorn-proof tube and the tire itself, way beyond repair. The brake must have been digging into it all the way up.

There aren’t many cars on Highway 1 up here, and the few there are won’t stop to help me. I’m forced to walk six miles down what would certainly be one of the most thrilling hills of California. I show up in Leggett feeling dejected. There’s a hardware store here, but it carries no 26-inch tires for me.

Dejected again, I roll the bike out to highway 101 and stick out my thumb. Again no one stops, until at last a hippie girl in a big explorer pulls over. We take the seat off the recument, wrestle it in the back, and head north for Piercy. It reminds me of the time a hippie girl in a beetle rescued Pete and I outside Anza and took us back to the Pacific Crest Trail.

She drops me off in Piercy, where I find a room for the night and a tire for the bike that will hopefully take me through the last stretch.

My last day of riding on the coast. I explore Fort Bragg a bit - it has a strange sort of old west look to it. Lots of wooden storefronts. Maybe it’s to go with the logging trucks that roll through on highway 1. I find break fast and coffee before moving on.

The wind picks up in the afternoon, and I decide to make camp at an empty campground along the highway before the road turns inland and up 2000-ft Leggett Hill.

I start the day with a nice ride along the Russian River out to Bodega Bay. When I was 12 my mom and Bruce took me on a group trip called the CoastWalk where we walked the coast through Sonoma and Mendicino counties. These distant memories emerge again as I pedal the same miles on highway 1, especially as I pass Fort Ross, where we spent a night on that trip.

Forestville provides an excellent respite from the road. I eat and help cook marvelous meals with Bruce and his wife Mary. I spend a very full day riding backroads south past Sebastapol, Rohnert Park and Petaluma. I was hoping to make it back to the Golden Gate, but it proves too far for a day ride and I swing out to the coast on the Point Reyes road and back up highway 1. I stop for a meal on Tomales Bay and show up back in Forestville after dark, totally pooped.

Mom joins us while making her own way north to meet me at the end of my ride. I feel loathe to return to the road again, knowing that when I do it will all soon be over.